Even If We Don't Find Heaven
by IAmToast24
Summary: Cato and Clove have been training all their lives for the chance to become Victors. But an unexpected turn just before the Reaping shatters their plans and forces them to question everything they hold dear, including each other. Follow Cato and Clove as they fight for their lives, and their love, during the 74th Hunger Games.
1. Commencement

Cato wakes up in a cold sweat, grabbing his knife from under his pillow. Even though he doesn't need it at the moment, the feel of its handle comforts him, so he traces the rivets with his fingers until he can picture the pattern: his name with a four leaf clover around it. Eventually, his heartbeat slows along with his breathing, just as the light of dawn rises on his face.

Today is the Reaping.

With a grunt, Cato shuffles out of bed and runs himself a bath. He makes sure to take his time as he scrubs his hair and body clean, knowing that he has to impress all of Panem today. After drying off, he puts on the stiff suit his father has laid out on his bed for him, trying not to feel uncomfortable. He can't afford to look anything but confident and deadly. In the mirror he sees the hardened warrior six years of training have shaped. Today is the day it all pays off.

"There's my victor," his father announces as he walks into Cato's room. He pats his son on the shoulder, intentionally gripping the flesh a bit too hard. Cato forces a smile through the pain, knowing that any sign of weakness will not be tolerated.

"Today I'm merely a tribute," Cato remarks, realizing instantly that he has said the wrong thing. His father's grip grows tighter.

"With an attitude like that, that's all you'll ever be." His father's voice is gruff and low, like someone plucking a guitar string with gravel. Cato nods, meeting his father's eyes in the mirror. Two pairs stare, one a clouded, murky hazel, the other a clear, innocent blue, expressing the same sentiment: no mercy, no failure, only victory.

"We're going to the market before the ceremony," his father tells him. Then he leaves the room, and Cato understands that he must be downstairs and ready to go in five minutes.

When they get to the market, his father holds him by the elbow, whispering in his ear, "Stand straight and don't embarrass me." Cato once again nods, obeying his commander.

"Jonas!" a woman calls from her stand, and Cato's father goes over to her with a smile. Cato watches as his father warmly greets the woman. She is probably thanking him for his efforts in the Districts as almost everyone does. His father is the Head Commander for District Two, has been for three years ever since he finished his tour as a Peacekeeper for the Districts. Besides being a Victor, it is the highest honor one can achieve. Cato himself used to dream of following in his father's footsteps, before he was put into the Tribute Training Program. Now he loathes the title.

"Cato," a voice shouts, and it's the only sound in the world that can get him to stop worrying about his father. Cato turns to the source but it seems there's no one there. He grins knowing that this is a game, and he walks towards the voice. Suddenly, he's pulled into an alcove created between two carts and the building behind it.

"Good boy," Clove says, still gripping his shirt tightly where she grabbed him. Their bodies become squished together in the small space, a fact neither of them minds. She looks up at him through her eyelashes and flashes a smile, _her_ smile.

Clove isn't pretty when she smiles. Her lips raise devilishly and her dark eyes gleam. A small dimple appears on her right cheek just below a lone freckle. White, perfectly polished teeth clamp together in a tight line. Sometimes, it seems a bit too rehearsed, other times it's as wild as can be. No, there is nothing pretty or cute about her smile. It's the kind of smile that inspires fear. And she's more than pretty when it takes over her face.

She is beautiful.

"You made it too easy," Cato claims, his hands finding their way to her waist. "Took all the fun out of it." Clove just laughs, a sly grin on her face.

"Then I guess we'll have to find another way to have fun," she suggests, her lips grazing his. He leans into her, both of them still smiling widely. Cato kisses her with everything in him, attempting to leave a part of himself with her. They are rough with each other, neither of them holding on to some soft, romantic belief that the other is fragile or breakable. He loves her because she is fierce and strong and invincible, and she loves him for all the same things. Cato's hands travel down the length of her, feeling the curve of her hips beneath his thumbs. Her lips trace his jaw and his neck, her hands balled in his shirt. For a while, there is nothing but her and them and this small alcove between the buildings that has momentarily become their own little world.

After a few minutes of this, they break apart, knowing that Cato's father will be looking for him soon. Cato goes to leave but Clove grabs his arm roughly.

"There is fear in your eyes," she tells him. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off. "Just don't let them see." Her tone is hard as stone. He thrusts his arm out of her grip.

"I fear nothing," he declares. Clove's eyes melt for a moment, they way they do only with him.

"I almost believe you," she says, her hand caressing his cheek. He closes his eyes and leans into her touch for just a second, and then she's gone, her scent lingering in her wake. Cato straightens his suit and goes to find his father.

"Cato!" his father exclaims. "I've been looking for you everywhere." There is a solemn look on his face that Cato doesn't usually associate with his father.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Ketsia," his father responds. "She's dead." In those two words, Cato's world falls apart. He shakes his head, unable to mask his distress.

Ketsia is, or was, the female tribute in line for this year's Reaping. She was to be Cato's partner in the Games. They've trained together for years, but both of them always knew they would kill each other when the time came, so that's not the cause of his worry: Clove is. She's tied for next in line, a gap she was sure to surpass in the following year. That was their plan: Cato wins this year, she wins next year, and they get to live happily as Victors for the rest of their days. Ketsia was never supposed to die before the Games.

"I know it is concerning news," his father says, misreading Cato's worry. "They are still unsure of the cause, though I doubt it matters now." His father continues talking, something about Ketsia killing herself or another Games hopeful paying someone to do the job. But Cato isn't listening; all he can think is _Clove_. Blood drums in his ears, his brain working overtime to figure it all out.

For years, Clove has been purposefully tied with Raven, a girl their same age with amazing sword and combat skills. She's big, tall and buff, but not nearly as strategic or cunning as Clove. Still, Clove has carefully kept from outperforming her in order to maintain her spot in next year's games. Especially because it is to be a Quarter Quell, and the honor of victory would be enormous. But with Ketsia dead, the spot will go to the next in line, and Cato is unsure of what will happen.

Clove cannot back out: to do so would be to forfeit her volunteer spot, which would mean that she would never get her chance at the Games. But more than that, it would bring shame upon her family. Unspeakable shame. She would be marked a coward, shunned by her family and the whole community. Cato can't remember the last time someone refused to volunteer after training. He's heard only whispers and rumors, like ghost stories shared around a campfire. That's how rare it is, how unfathomable.

"Either way, you'll come out victorious, my boy," his father finishes, and Cato flashes a hard smile, trying to show his father his iron will. But part of him knows it was a lie, knows that his will is not iron but ice. Surrounded by this cold world, it will not soften or bend. Yet it will melt for Clove. Clove, who is fire in every sense of the word: bright, hot, and merciless. Fire is a double edged sword: it has the power to give life and to take it.

A horn sounds from the District Hall, but there are still hours until the Reaping is set to begin. Cato looks around and sees that everyone else is just as confused as he is, even his father. The horn blows again and Cato knows that all District residents must drop their activities and gather in the square. Cato has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Something big is happening.

And Cato's certain that it's not good.

* * *

Clove hears strange whispers as she walks towards District Hall, and she reflexively reaches for her knife. As soon as her hand is on the hilt, she feels better, more at peace. Anyone else might mock her for it or get defensive, but Cato would understand. Cato always understands.

The crowd gathered in the square is large already when Clove arrives, but fifteen minutes later, when the Head Peacekeeper of the the District steps up to the microphone, the crowd is suffocating. Clove, who is short by District 2 standards, pushes her way through the mass of people until she can see the stage. She's never heard of them calling a District Gathering on Reaping Day. This must be important.

"As some of you might already know, a young woman was found dead in her home this morning," the Peacekeeper states. "She has been identified as Ketsia Limrock." Murmurs ripple through the crowd, gasps of delight and horror heard in equal measure. "Though it was originally presumed to be a suicide, new evidence has presented itself." He pauses, shifting his papers. "We now know that her life was taken by a fellow Tribute hopeful who wished to gain a spot in this or next year's Games. Ketsia was murdered by Raven Scarbord." The doors behind him open and two other Peacekeepers drag the beaten, bloody murderer between them. She has blood dripping from her mouth and nose, it's drops creating a puddle on the steps below her. Raven is intense, sure, but Clove never thought she was _this_ stupid. Doing it is one thing, but getting caught is what truly makes her an idiot.

"The Hunger Games are a sacred and honorable tradition," he continues. "To become a Victor in this way dishonors the Games, the Capital, and this District. Therefore, Raven Scarbord will be sentenced to death, and she will forfeit her spot among the Tributes." The crowd howled and roared, some cheering for her demise, some spitting at her in disgust. Dishonor is no laughing matter in this District, and many people thought of it as a higher calling than their own selves. Despite this, Clove can think only of herself in this moment, can think only of Cato and the Reaping and the Games.

"The execution will take place tomorrow after the Reaping had been properly celebrated and the Tributes sent off. Let this be a lesson to anyone naive enough to believe a plan like this will work. I promise you it will not. And you will pay." The Peacekeeper folds up his paper and signals to the others. "Good luck to our District in the 74th Hunger Games." He pauses, smiling a grim sort of smile, his eyes empty like always. "May the odds be ever in your favor."


	2. Reaping

Clove blindly pushes her way through the crowd, not knowing what to do, not knowing anything anymore. Her entire world, all her plans, have just vanished in front of her. And there's nothing she can do, nowhere she can turn.

She thinks about trying to find Cato in the chaos but almost immediately strikes the idea from her mind. He'll be with his father, Jonas, unable to do anything more than greet her with the shadow of familiarity. Cato comes from a long line of highly honorable soldiers and Peacekeepers, something of which his father endlessly reminds him. His great uncle actually competed in the Games years ago, though he lost to that year's girl Tribute from District 4. Clove recalls that her name begins with an 'M' and that she's still alive. Cato's family is wealthy for District standards, and Jonas likes to act like he and his son are better than others, especially people from the Slums.

That's where Clove and her family live: in the broken-down, weather worn housing sector on the District's edge. Her family, which consists of her two parents, her grandmother, and her five siblings, _needs_ her to win the Games. They're counting on her victory to rise them from their less than ideal situation. When she got accepted into the Tribute Training Program, her family was ecstatic. _Finally,_ her mother said, _our honor will be restored_. She said this in reference to her own wealth and high standing before she married Clove's poor, titleless father. They say in his youth he was beautiful: handsome and charming like a prince though he was more the pauper. It must have been why her mother gave everything up for him. Now he's a drunk who can barely keep a job.

Clove knows that she can't drop out of the Games, even though her heart screams for it. If she volunteers, Cato will go into the Arena with her, and only one of them will come out. Her future with him, which, just minutes ago, she could see so clearly, has been erased. She tries to imagine a world without Cato in it, a life without his stubborn anger and steady heart to temper her quick wit and doubtful nature. Somehow, she's unable to picture it. Perhaps she will even have to watch him die, right in front of her, while she's helpless to save him. She imagines the the light in his eyes slowly dimming until there's nothing but death behind them, her own reflection still clear in his crystal blue irises.

 _No!_ Clove shouts internally, shaking her head furiously as she makes her way back to her house to change before the Reaping. _You can't afford to think about that_. She tells herself to push all of her concerns away in order to prepare for what is to come. Clove picks up the bathing bucket from her family's bathroom and begins readying herself for the worst day of her life.

Hours later, she and three of her siblings are dressed and walking towards the square, their parents behind them. Randal, who is newly 13, can't tell that his chestnut brown hair is sticking out everywhere. Ira, Clove's older sister, walks with her chin raised as if she's daring anyone to doubt her honor. It is her last Reaping Day. Freya, who is only about a year older than Clove, is nervously smoothing down her grey dress. Clove's father, who usually can't even walk straight, is wearing an old suit and standing stiffly, his eyes as focused as she's ever seen them. He nods solemnly to his daughter as if to acknowledge her sacrifice. He has no idea how big of a sacrifice it truly is.

Banners hang from the District Hall, decorated with the symbols of the Capitol and a picture of President Snow. White, Roman style columns are surrounded by Peacekeepers, their guns and masks meant to intimidate more than anything. The stage is set with flowers and a large podium, the Mayor and his family already sitting in their places. The District's' usual announcer has yet to make an appearance, but he probably just wants to make a grand entrance. Clove almost laughs at the annoyingly shallow culture of the Capitol. If she were a different kind of person, she would hate them and their ways. Instead, she treats them with a kind of cold indifference.

Hating them would accomplish nothing anyway.

The square isn't as crowded as it was earlier, frantic citizens now replaced by neat rows of children lined up for the slaughter. But it's all for show. Everyone knows that Tributes from District 2 are not chosen at random, not really. The complex system of volunteering as well as the Training Program account for that. Still, Clove can't help but look out at the crowd of small, innocent faces and wonder, not for the first time, about the other Districts, the ones with children who _do_ have something to fear when they are rounded up like pigs on this fateful day. How many of them will she face in the Arena? How many will die by her hand?

"Welcome!" a male voice blasts, his Capitol accent tickling the edges of his speech. "Today marks the beginning of the festivities surrounding the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" He then continues in the same manner he does every year, reminding them of Panem's history and the origins of the Games. Telling them how glorious and wonderful it is that the Capitol provides for them in exchange for their Tributes. It's a bunch of bullshit and Clove knows it. The Capitol is not their savior, it is their oppressor: a city full of bullies and ignorant bastards. And the President, well, the president's the biggest bully of all.

Clove understands all of this, and perhaps a better person than her would do something about it, but she's not that person. All she wants to do is use her knowledge for her own benefit. If she can outsmart the Capitol, outsmart the Gamemakers, then maybe she can ensure that she and Cato have a future.

"Now it's time to pick our Tributes!" the announcer, whose name she recalls is Daviner Cambridge, says cheerily. Clove's lungs can barely get enough air. Daviner reaches into the large glass bowl full of names, his pink nails rotating around the papers. Unable to stop herself, Clove searches for Cato in the crowd. She finds him easily, since he is easily one of the tallest, most built teenagers in their District. His eyes are on hers in a silent plea, though he must know what she is going to do because when she shakes her head, he nods to her. Tears well up in her eyes as the announcer calls an unfamiliar name on stage.

Cato's blue gaze is still on her as the girl finds her way to the stage. There is a pause before Daviner asks the world ending question: "Are there any volunteers?" He knows there are. Slowly, Clove walks towards the center aisle, watching as people back up to let her through. Once she gets there, she knows there can be no turning back. The square around her is silent, reverent even, as she steps forward. She gets one last glimpse at Cato's eyes before she lets out the words that will forever curse their future:

"I volunteer as Tribute."

* * *

Clove's words echo in Cato's ears, his heart hammering inside his ribcage. He thought that he would not hear them coming out of her mouth until after he had already become a Victor. He watches her step onto the stage and be greeted by Daviner, feeling proud when her sly grin begins to make the announcer a bit uneasy. He shakes her hand after she gives her name, and then turns to face the audience.

"Now on to the boys!" Dread builds up in Cato's stomach as a random name is called. The boy walks onto the stage. Now is Cato's moment. His heart beats furiously as he parts the crowd around him. And with every beat, it calls out to Clove.

 _I'm sorry._ He pushes into the aisle. Her eyes are looking past him, and even though he wants her to look at him more than anything, he understands why she can't.

 _I love you._ He scowls at Daviner and molds his hands into fists. He can't let his anger get the best of him, not now.

 _Forgive me._ He clears his throat.

"I volunteer as Tribute."

There is only a slight pause before the District erupts into applause and then he is being led onto stage. Daviner asks his name, and he does his best to sound menacing as he gives it. He is rewarded by the scared look in the announcer's eyes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Daviner says. "Your male and female Tributes for the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" The crowd erupts, chanting and clapping for them. Danviner then gestures for Cato and Clove to shake hands.

Clove turns toward him, her face a mask of ruthlessness, and Cato roughly grabs her hand. She doesn't even flinch, grabbing his just as hard. But then there's a moment, just between breaths, when he sees the doubt in her eyes, the tender hopelessness she feels for their situation. Cato senses it reflected in his own heart, as if they are mirror images of each other.

As they let go, he allows his thumb to graze hers, a motion that no one but Clove would even notice. He watches her nod, her head just barely moving, as she feels his touch. He's sure that Clove means for it to be a comforting gesture, to assure him they they are in this fight together, but it just adds to his pain. There is no way out of this that he can see, no foreseeable future in which both of them live.

Looking out into the crowd, Cato does his best to appear strong and unforgiving. It's not hard, considering how angry he is at this very moment. There is only one thing in this world that Cato loves more than himself: Clove. He'll do anything to save her, anything to ensure that she makes it out of that Arena a Victor, but he doesn't know how. Sneaking a look at the girl he loves, Cato feels a heavy weight settle around his heart.

 _Oh Clove,_ he thinks. _The odds are most certainly_ _ **not**_ _in our favor._


	3. Convergence

Silence falls heavily upon the small room as her guard closes the polished wooden door. Clove finds herself alone for a breathless moment, awaiting the train of visitors she will see within the next hour. First it will be her family, all of them huddled together around the itchy brown rug, telling her, with naive certainty, that she will be a Victor when they see her next. Then it will be her training mentor, Alegra, who will go over strategy and remind her that she is fighting not only for herself, but for her District. After that, who knows. Anyone who wants to share in the spoils of her victory will come; it doesn't matter that Clove may barely know them. They will come, and they will congratulate her. She takes a deep breath to steady herself before the door opens once more and the hour begins.

Clove expects to see many people within her short time here, and that's exactly what happens. They all file in, each with a different look of hope in their eyes. Some only say a few words of advice before shuffling out, some try to act as if they are friends, though Clove has none, before having to be escorted out by the guard. By the end of the hour, it seems to Clove that everyone in the District has come to wish her luck.

Everyone except for the one person she wants to see, that is. Everyone except for the one person who can temper the cold wrath building inside of her. She can feel the ice curling itself like a fist around her ribcage, trying to close her heart to anything but logic and survival. Clove recalls a time, back when she was very young, when that feeling was the only thing that kept her alive. Days and nights spent scavenging for scraps, for food that wasn't stale so that her family could eat. There was no room for hope in her heart, just frigid numbness. Only when she met Cato did she begin to thaw.

After the last visitor has left the room, Clove's guard comes back in. He instructs her to follow him out into the lobby where the cameras are waiting. She does her best to look cunning and brave and nonplussed, all the while looking for Cato. Unfortunately, she doesn't even catch a glimpse of his golden hair or his crystal eyes.

Clove finally sees him as they are escorted out of the Hall, her heart racing for a moment before she remembers the cameras. Too many eyes are on them right now. As of sensing her thoughts, Cato glances at her. His frown wavers, only for a millisecond, only enough for her to catch. He then looks straight ahead, his jaw set tight. To anyone else, it must look like he is gearing up for a killing spree, passively wondering how many necks he can snap in the Arena, but Clove recognizes his pain. It's the same as hers. So, she sets her jaw as well, understanding that there are masks all warriors must wear, and the cold face of mercilessness is hers.

She wears it well.

Finally, after the doors of the train have shut and everyone has gone to their own areas, when the only sounds are their heavy breaths and the rattling of the train cars, they are alone. Desperately, without a moment of hesitation, Clove rushes into Cato's arms. He crushes her to him, and she can hear the rapid beating of his heart against her ear. For a while, they just stay like this, caught up in the feeling of each other, trying not to think about everything else. But eventually, they pull apart.

"I'm sorry," Cato says, his hand caressing her cheek, his eyes searching hers for a forgiveness she's already given. Clove reaches up and covers his hand with her own. Slowly, she turns her head into their intertwined fingers and rests her lips on them.

"There's nothing to apologize for," she tells him. "You had no choice." He pulls her back to him, planting a light kiss on the top of her head.

"But I did," Cato murmurs against her hair, his voice thick with guilt. "I could've dropped out. I didn't have to volunteer." He sounds broken and desperate, like he both wants to believe it and wants not to. She understands; the same battle has been raging inside of her since the Reaping. Though Cato is still holding her, she inches back so that he can see her face.

"No," Clove tells him, a strong force behind her words. She shakes her head, trying to make him see that she doesn't blame him, that she can't. "You and I both know what would have happened if you had done that."

"I could've handled my father," Cato states, trying to sound confident. But his eyes betray him, and Clove knows the truth.

"Maybe. But it's more than that."

"I know." He sighs.

"Cato, the shame-" Clove swallows hard, imagining what would have been. "You'd be condemned to the worst kind of life. A life without glory, without status. You would be a man without honor."

"And now I am a man with no future."

"Hey," Clove says, grabbing his head and forcing him to look at her. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" he asks. "We both know it's true."

"We'll figure it out," Clove assures him, burying her face in his shirt, winding her arms around him. "We always do."

* * *

Later, Cato lays in bed, the moonlight shining through the curtains as the train glides on through the night. It cascades down Clove's sleeping body, highlighting the deadly curve of her cheekbones. Most people look younger when they sleep, more innocent. Not Clove.

Cato can recall the first time they met, back when Clove got accepted into the Tribute Training Program, also known in the District as the TTP. At the time, Cato had just turned 13, and he had been training for about a year. It was the first day for new recruits, just a few days after the Games had ended. Cato was slated to be part of the demonstration for the new members, a sort of brutal welcome since his role involved beating on some untrained 12 year old. Granted, he really wasn't supposed to hurt the kid too much, only scare the newbies and show them what awaits them in the Program. A demonstration of brute strength, very much the way of the District.

Cato was so excited that day, the day he would prove himself to be the most brutal of them all. He walked into the open courtyard surrounded by the Training Center. The center itself is located behind the large mountain on the edge of the District, hidden in its shadow, ignored by the Capitol. Some parts of the fairly large building are growing old: rotting wood, unstable corners, soggy siding. These are the parts built shakily by radicals during the first few years of the Games. The legend goes that they were a group of former Capitol citizens who wanted their previous honor and glory restored. They saw only one way to do that; they became Victors.

The courtyard was filling up quickly with students new and old, the early morning light passing over the Training Center. Years and years of hard work forged into a patchwork structure unlike anything else: old wooden walls repainted with blood, rusted steel pipes dripping condensation, newly installed doors and lights courtesy of last year's Victor. The Training Center is built like a rectangular arena, the inside areas leading into a grand courtyard.

Eventually the building was found by Capitol officials who were cracking down on illegal activity in the Districts. Fortunately, some of the Peacekeepers saw potential profits in the idea of training future Victors. So, they let the Program continue, even helping to fund it and hide its full identity from the Capitol. In return, anyone who goes into the Program and comes out of the Arena a Victor pays a percent of their earnings to the Peacekeepers. If the Capitol really wanted to get rid of the it, they could have tracked the building down and destroyed it. They could easily dismantle the Program from there. But the Capitol knows that the Games are more interesting this way. At least, that's what Cato's father told him.

But that day, the only thing on Cato's mind was looking good in front of the senior instructors. Often, if a member never makes it to the Games, they'll become instructors at the Training Center. On the first day of every year, the oldest and most skilled instructors come to the demonstrations to scout new talent. If they really like you, they might even choose to become your mentor and train with you personally. Sometimes, if you're especially good, a Victor will take notice.

That day, Cato had his eye on Brutus, the greatest and most revered of all living District 2 Victors. He had yet to take on a trainee, always declaring that no one had impressed him enough to be worth his time. But Cato wanted to change all that. He wanted to be the first.

Little did he know that when the demonstration leader asked for volunteers, the first to raise a hand would be a small, raven haired girl with barely any meat to her bones. The girl stepped up to the sparring floor, all ninety pounds of her. Cato almost laughed, looking her up and down, prepared to take it easy on her. Part of him was a bit disappointed because winning against this frail, pixie-like child surely would not impress the instructors, least of all Brutus. He had almost resigned himself to an easy victory. But just before the whistle blew, his opponent lifted her face and their eyes met. He saw, then, just a glimpse of the fierce warrior underneath: angled features accentuated by the cruel, calculated glare of her rich brown irises. She gave him a devilish grin, one he now knows well.

When the whistle blew, Cato launched himself toward the girl, expecting her to either back away or try to deflect his advances. To his utter surprise, she did neither. Instead, quick like a bullet, she slid between his legs, kicking him from behind and throwing off his balance. Regaining his footing, Cato turned around to face his opponent. Already he could feel the anger building inside of him. He let it; the rage made him dangerous.

He lunged at the girl again, this time aiming for her legs, trying to amend his previous mistake. But the girl was ready for his adjustment and faster than she seemed. So, as Cato went to grab her legs, she rocketed forward, and, using his back as a springboard, flipped herself over him, leaving him to land on his hands and knees. He got up immediately, his anger growing rapidly. He was ready to rip this girl apart.

But as soon as Cato turned to face her, the girl pounced on him, her legs wrapping around his torso, her body weight and momentum pulling both of them to the ground. For a moment, he was completely disoriented, shocked by how events had unfolded. Then he realized that she had him pinned, that she had won. The match was over just as suddenly and surprisingly as it had started.

Later that same day, during lunch hour, Cato noticed the girl sitting alone. Thinking her to be an easy target, he marched over to the table where she sat with a large book open in front of her and a ruby red apple in her hand.

Just as he reached the table, the girl said, without even looking up from her reading, "I wouldn't try anything if I were you." Cato stopped in front of her, very much surprised by her words. She looked up at him without even the slightest hint of interest, as if he were a pest with which she had only grown mildly annoyed. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you further by beating you twice in one day." Her eyes flicked quickly to his left and then back to her book.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cato saw the table of instructors. Fights aren't uncommon in the lunchroom, but he had already shown weakness in front of them today, as this girl reminded him. He wasn't likely to do it again. So he just smiled and took a seat across from the girl.

"What makes you think you would win again?" Cato asked, trying his best to sound intimidating. She looked him up and down, seemingly unfazed by this.

"I took you down easily," she said, as if it were a casual observation.

"I was surprised this morning, that's all."

"Underestimating an opponent is good way to get yourself killed in the Arena," she responded. Her tone was detached, like she didn't really care whether or not he lived or died.

"Well, we're not in the Arena yet," Cato snarled. "Besides, I'm twice your size, and if I wasn't going easy on you-"

"Your size makes no difference," she interrupted, a bit of force behind her words.

"Of course it does," Cato retorted, slamming his hand on the table. This girl was really getting on his nerves.

"Maybe to the sponsors." She bit her apple, her voice airy, knowledgeable. "Guys like you always make fine action figures. After the chariot ride alone I'm sure they'll be lining up to bet on you like a racehorse."

"Jealous?" he questioned, smirking at her. But she just let out a dry laugh. His smirk faltered. His usual methods had no affect on her.

"Of a brainless brute who's just as forgettable as the rest of this District's Tributes?" She shook her head, that fierce gleam in her eyes returning. "I might not get a whole lot of sponsors right away, but once I start eliminating Tributes left and right, they'll see how valuable I am."

"And how are you planning to do that?" Cato asked, sincerely confused.

"With my brain," she said wickedly, grinning at him. All of his previous anger had left him, replaced by curiosity. "Brains beats out brawn every time."

"That can't be true," Cato remarked. He pointed to the instructor's table where a few Victors sat. "Brutality is the way of our District. It's how we win."

"Is it?" she questioned. "Think beyond their obvious physical abilities. What did each of them do to ensure their win?" It was like she was a school teacher asking him to solve a problem to which she already knew the solution.

"I don't know," he shrugged.

"Each of them had a strategy. They used their alliances to their advantage, preformed acts which solidified them as unique individuals in the eyes of the Capital. They were brutal, of course, but they were _so much more_." It sounded like the girl had put a lot of thought into this.

"And you think you can be just like them?" he asked. Strangely, he was intrigued by this girl. She was definitely more interesting than anyone else he'd met.

"I know I can," she said. "In fact, I can be better." And with that, the girl closed her book, got up, and threw away her apple core.

"Wait!" he called. She stopped and turned around, a questioning look on her face. He got up and walked over to her, putting out his hand. "I'm Cato." She glanced own at his hand but didn't make an attempt to shake it.

"I know who you are, Commander's son." There was no malice behind her words, though Cato had grown accustomed to detecting it. It was the first time in a while that anyone had called him that without some kind of insult lying beneath the surface. She turned to go again and Cato stood there, confused, before taking another step toward her.

"Hey!" he said, and she stopped once again, though this time she didn't face him. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Though he couldn't see her face, Cato felt, somehow, that she was smiling.

"Clove," she confessed, just quiet enough for him to wonder if he had heard it right. And then she walked away once more, leaving Cato to stare at her back, her name still hanging in the air between them, like a promise that hadn't yet been made.


End file.
